


The Dowry Stone

by TelWoman



Category: Cyrion - Tanith Lee
Genre: Freeform - Tanith Lee, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: An adventurer, a wanderer, a friend of rich men and desert nomads alike, Cyrion comes to the city of Andriok, where an old friend asks for his help.





	The Dowry Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Cyrion is borrowed with respect from Tanith Lee's 1982 story collection of the same name.

  
  
  


The setting sun’s crimson glow bathed the domes and rooftops in red-gold fire across the city of Andriok. In the rooftop garden of a handsome house on a hillside above the harbour, Guerrand de Clair poured wine into a chased silver goblet.

“No doubt,” he said, “you’ve been existing on a straitened diet these past months, my friend.” He held the goblet out to his guest. “Do the nomads allow wine?”

Leaning languidly against a parapet, limned by the rosy flare of the sun’s last rays, Guerrand’s guest offered him a tranquil smile and accepted the cup. “Indeed, they do. They live a disciplined life, as befits their harsh environment, but they welcome the finer things in moderation.”

Guerrand shook his head. “Cyrion, my friend, you are a man of contrasts. You could live a life of ease, and yet you choose not to.”

His guest’s smile widened. “The nomads have a saying: ‘The caged bird lives at ease and has no Iiberty; the falcon is driven by hunger, but he has the freedom of the skies.’” He sipped his wine, the rings on his elegant fingers glinting in the slanting light. “The choice is easily made between the cage and the sky.”

Guerrand de Clair filled his own goblet and drank. “I admit that I find it hard to understand why you seek out the nomads and sojourn with them as you do. Most men desiring a time of respite would prefer to rest in a place of comfort and plenty.”

“I am not most men, my friend. The nomads live a life of restraint and discipline. I find it cleansing. Restorative.”

Guerrand chuckled softly. “Not what I would choose myself, but I see your reasoning.” He seated himself on a carved bench beside a trough of fragrant flowers and gestured to his guest to do the same. 

“My friend, there’s something I would ask your assistance with. It’s a matter of some delicacy, but the parties involved are dear to me, and I believe you would be of more help to them than I can be myself.”

Cyrion raised one eyebrow. “How so?”

“My good friend Baldwyn le Verrier came to see me this afternoon, shortly before you arrived. He was distressed – extremely so. He told me that his daughter Milisande is missing, and he believes she has been kidnapped.”

Carefully, Cyrion placed his wine goblet down on a low table beside his seat. “A grave misfortune for any father to bear. Graver for the daughter. Is she a child?”

“No. A woman of marriageable age. He’s convinced she was kidnapped – after all, he’s a rich man, and ransom may be demanded. He’s also a powerful man in business, and no doubt has enemies who may wish to exact revenge on him for some injury.”

“Is it certain that misfortune has claimed her? I don’t wish to be indelicate, but – might she have eloped with a lover?”

“I doubt it.” Guerrand frowned. “She’s a dutiful daughter, and modest in her conduct.”

Silver-blond brows rose above grey eyes. “Even the most dutiful daughters have been known to dissemble. Perhaps her father does not know all there is to be known.”

Guerrand shook his head vigorously. “No, I wouldn’t think that is the case. Milisande and her father are devoted to each other. The girl’s mother died when she was ten, and I think Baldwyn felt it necessary to compensate her for the loss. He has lavished affection on her, given her gifts, granted her every wish." A pause. "To tell the truth, I think he spoiled the child.”

Cyrion smiled at this last barb of honesty. “It’s not unheard of,” he said, “for fathers to be over-indulgent with only children.”

“Oh, she’s not an only child. There’s a son, two years older; his name is Alard. But Baldwyn never indulged the boy as he indulged Milisande. I think it’s a mark of worth in the girl’s character that she didn’t turn out petulant and demanding. A lesser girl, a lesser woman, might have – but she’s sweet tempered and pleasant. As a child, she adored her father – anyone with eyes could see that – and as she grew to womanhood, she remained devoted.” 

“Would you say,” Cyrion asked carefully, “that le Verrier kept her apart from other people?”

“Not at all. Her life has followed the normal course. She’s recently been promised to the son of a prominent family in Andriok - Herriot Pontchardon, a fine young man. Baldwyn was delighted with the match. The betrothal was to have been announced at the end of this month.”

“Her father may have been delighted, but was the girl content with this? Might she have run away to avoid the marriage?”

“I don’t think so. My impression is that she was pleased with the prospect, and that she liked her intended well enough." 

Cyrion said nothing, and sipped his wine. 

Guerrand poured more wine into his own cup, and held out the jug to Cyrion, who declined with a smile. 

“You’ve never married,” de Clair remarked. “Has it never seemed an attractive idea to you?”

“Caged birds and falcons, my friend,” Cyrion murmured; “cages and open skies.”

 

* * *

 

The house of Baldwyn le Verrier was even more opulent than Guerrand de Clair’s. Morning light poured in through high windows, and the breeze blowing down softly from the hills behind the city stirred bright tapestries hanging on the walls. A servant led the visitors into a large, comfortable salon.

The master of the house, le Verrier himself, sat in the darkest corner of the room, a cup of wine and an untouched loaf before him on a low table.

“Baldwyn, my friend!” Guerrand greeted him with hearty concern. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

Le Verrier looked up, eyes hollow with lack of sleep. “Ah, Guerrand. I’m pleased to see you. Forgive me, keeping to the shadows, but I have not slept, and the light troubles my eyes.” He looked beyond Guerrand to where Cyrion stood. “Who is this?”

“Baldwyn, this is my friend Cyrion, of whom I have spoken many times. He is a guest in my house. I have brought him here because I hope that he might be able to help you.”

“Please, gentlemen: sit down.” Le Verrier indicated handsomely upholstered couches on either side of his own chair. “Guerrand, thank you for your consideration. Master Cyrion—” Le Verrier’s eyes assumed a razor-sharp assessment, noting the newcomer’s appearance: his elegant city clothing, the richly jeweled rings on his left hand, the polished hilt of the sword in the red leather sheath. “I have heard your name. Guerrand has spoken of you for many years.”

Cyrion inclined his head, acknowledging the recognition.

“My daughter has been kidnapped. Guerrand has told you of this?”

“He has – briefly. If I am to help you, it would help me to hear the story from you.”

And so, the story unfolded. Two nights before, Baldwyn le Verrier’s daughter Milisande had gone to her bed at the usual time. Her serving woman had helped her to prepare for bed, tidied up her belongings, and left her – and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. The following morning, Milisande did not come to the table to break her fast, and she was not in her chamber when her maid was sent to inquire. At first, le Verrier supposed that his daughter had gone out early on some errand, although it was uncharacteristic for her to leave the house without saying where she was going. She did not return to the house all day. By evening, he had become worried because this was so foreign to his daughter’s usual conduct, and he began to fear for her safety. There was no sign of struggle or forced entry, but none the less, le Verrier had concluded that Milisande had been taken against her will, for he could see no other reason that she would be missing from her home.

His tale told, le Verrier slumped back in his chair. 

Cyrion exchanged glances with Guerrand de Clair. “Master le Verrier,” he said, “if your daughter has been kidnapped, what motive lies behind it?”

The anguish on le Verrier’s face deepened. “It must be an attempt to extort money from me. What else can I think? Milisande was a quiet, dutiful girl; I cannot think anyone would wish to harm her on her own account. I am a rich man. I don’t have enemies as such, but wealth excites envy.”

“And has there been a demand for ransom?”

Le Verrier shook his head. “No. None yet.”

Guerrand de Clair said, “Baldwyn, have you told Herriot Pontchardon that Milisande is missing?”

“I have. I went to Pontchardon’s house last night. Both Herriot and his father were most upset. In fact, it’s more correct to say that Fulk Pontchardon was very angry. He urged me to go to the Governor straight away and seek assistance from the City Watch.”

“And have you?” 

“No, Guerrand, I have not. It’s a matter I hoped to resolve without involving the Watch. I hope, rather, that I might rely on the assistance of your friend Master Cyrion.”

Both men turned toward Cyrion, who sat quiet and thoughtful, the tips of his fingers pressed together. After a few moments, Cyrion said, “Master le Verrier, I will try to find out what has happened, and we must hope that Milisande is unharmed. Perhaps I might start by seeing your daughter’s chamber, and speaking with her maidservant.”

Le Verrier nodded. “I will go and find the serving woman. She will assist you.” With some effort, he pushed himself to his feet, and his guests watched as he left the room.

Guerrand de Clair glanced at Cyrion. “You don’t believe the girl was kidnapped, do you?”

“I have no opinion. Yet. But it does seem odd, does it not, that a compliant and obedient girl loyal to her father and confident of his protection would make no attempt to call for his help if she faced abduction from her own home?”

“Perhaps she feared for her life?”

“Perhaps.”

De Clair pondered silently for a moment. “And yet, what other explanation than the one her father has settled on?”

“Conclusions,” remarked Cyrion, “must come after due consideration of the facts. I’ll reserve my judgement – for the time being.”

 

* * *

 

So Milisande’s maid was sent for, and Cyrion was taken to Milisande’s chamber. 

He stood, silent, watching the filmy muslin hangings stir softly as a breeze gusted past the windows, listening to the water play in the fountain in the courtyard, breathing the faint smells of perfume, incense and candle wax. 

The furnishings in Milisande’s chamber were as fine as any in the rest of her father’s house. The bed had intricately carved posts and delicately embroidered coverlets; the chests were inlaid with pearl-shell and gold wire. Beyond an archway, a row of gowns and mantles could be seen hanging on a long rail. 

Cyrion, who was no stranger to women’s bedchambers, surveyed the scene thoughtfully. There were chests – but only two. There were gowns – but their colours and fabrics were plainer than a rich young woman might aspire to. There were lamps and vases and ceramic jars – but not so many as to fill up the shelves on which they stood. There was a modesty, a plainness, about the room. 

He turned to the maidservant. “Master Le Verrier has asked for my help to find his daughter.” Cyrion paused, watching the woman’s face. “Do you know where she is?”

“No, sir,” the woman said quietly. “I do not.” Her posture was deferential, but she met Cyrion’s gaze with steady eyes. 

He smiled at her, liking her fearless regard. She was small woman, dainty as a bird, with the swarthy skin and blue-black hair that spoke of desert ancestry. 

“What’s your name?”

“Gaatha.”

“As Milisande’s personal maid, you would know her possessions. Would you be able to tell if anything is missing?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then,” said Cyrion, “we must go through her things, and you must tell me what is gone.”

Methodically, Gaatha sorted through the clothing hanging behind the archway and stored in the chests, the shoes and boots neatly lined up beside Milisande’s gowns and cloaks. She sorted through the cosmetics and perfumes, the hairbrushes and combs, the jewel boxes on the shelf beside the bed. Cyrion watched her at this task, Gaatha’s small hands working deftly as she sorted, counted, and replaced each item.

At the end of her search, Gaatha turned to Cyrion. “Sir, nothing is missing except one set of clothing. A gown, a cloak and hood. Boots.” Her eyes flickered away from Cyrion’s for a moment. “Undergarments.”

“Jewellery?”

“Mistress Milisande’s jewels are all in their boxes. None are missing.”

Thoughtful, Cyrion sat down on the broad window ledge. “Are you of the desert people, Gaatha?”

A puzzled smile flickered across the maid’s face and was quickly doused. “I was born amongst the nomads. My mother brought me to Andriok after my father died.”

“I’ve spent time amongst the nomads; I’ve learned much from them. They’re perceptive, and wise – and they have a high regard for truth.” Cyrion paused. “Master Le Verrier is certain his daughter was kidnapped. What do you think?”

“Sir, I don’t know. I helped her to prepare for bed, I put her clothes and jewels away, and when I left her, everything was as usual. I hope for her safety, but I don’t know where she is gone or how.”

Footsteps sounded in the doorway. 

Baldwyn Le Verrier came into his daughter’s chamber, moving slowly as if reluctant to enter. His fingers brushed the carved lid of a large cedarwood chest; his eyes lingered on the crystal jars on the shelf. With a heavy sigh, he sat on the edge of the silk-clothed bed.

“Thank you, Gaatha,” Cyrion murmured. “You’ve been very helpful. I would speak now with Master le Verrier.”

The servant bowed and left the room. 

“Well, Master Cyrion – have you found anything that will help us?”

“The maid has told me there is only one set of clothing missing from the chamber,” Cyrion said. “Nothing else is gone. Whether your daughter left of her own will or was taken under duress, it would appear that she has nothing to sustain her other than the clothes she was wearing. It would also appear that she had the time to find her clothing and dress.”

Le Verrier, slumped on the edge of the bed, sighed heavily and scrubbed one hand across his face. “Then what are we to conclude, Master Cyrion?”

Cyrion regarded the man carefully for a moment before he spoke. “Master le Verrier, I am a long way from reaching a conclusion. If you would permit me, I would search the grounds here, and make further enquiries about the town.”

Wearily, Le Verrier waved a hand. “Do as you see fit. Find me an answer.”

 

* * *

 

Cyrion pushed open the high, heavy doors and stepped out into the courtyard behind the house. Vines wove a dense green shade across a timber framework; fountains played in a broad pool surrounded by fragrant foliage. 

He followed a paved path around the edge of the courtyard and through an archway leading to an open space beyond. Fruit trees clustered in one corner. Buildings at the far end suggested stables. Cyrion walked toward these slowly, contemplating the high walls surrounding le Verrier’s property. It would take a determined brigand to climb in and out again; the more so if encumbered by an unwilling kidnap victim. 

“I take it you’re the swordsman Guerrand de Clair was speaking of.” 

Cyrion turned. 

The speaker was a young man, dark haired and expensively clothed. He stood with feet apart and his hands on his hips, his chin tilted upward. 

“I am.” Cyrion sketched a shallow bow. “My name is Cyrion.”

“Yes. Cyrion. The one they tell stories about in the taverns.” 

Cyrion smiled tranquilly. “If stories are told of me,” he remarked, “I hope they are either accurate or flattering. And you are…?”

“Alard le Verrier. Has my father asked you to find out what happened to my sister?”

“Your father believes she was kidnapped,” Cyrion said. The irritation in Alard le Verrier's voice interested him. It did not sound like concern for his sister’s safety – or his father’s distress.

Alard snorted contemptuously. “He believes that because he can’t bring himself to consider that the bitch might have run away.”

“And do you believe that she has run away?” 

“God alone will know what she’s done. She’s spent her life cajoling our father, wheedling for this favour and that. He’s showered her with gifts since she was a child and given in to her every whim. He hires a tutor for her! Can you believe that? A woman of nineteen years, with a tutor! Playing at scholarship. Wasting my father’s money and her own time. Avoiding her duty to marry, that’s what she was doing, the lazy strumpet.”

“But I understood that she has lately been betrothed.” 

“It’s not formalised yet,” Alard snapped. “No announcement’s been made – although both families have agreed on the match and it was to go ahead soon. Milisande was lucky that Herriot Pontchardon agreed to take her on.”

“Lucky? But I understood that your sister was beautiful and sweet-tempered.”

Alard snorted again. “She’s dull and bookish, and a spoiled minx. My father can’t see it. She has addled his brain with her selfishness. He gave me a decent upbringing and when I was fifteen, he took me out of the hands of my tutors and put me to work in the family business. Milisande he leaves in perpetual childhood – becoming more unsuited by the year to the life a normal woman should lead. She’s nineteen years old, nearly twenty. Father should have had her betrothed long before this. Oh, it’s true that she’s fair enough to look at, but she thinks she’s above the things a woman should do. She fills her head with mathematics and geometry, when she should be thinking about pleasing a husband and looking after children.”

“Perhaps Pontchardon will appreciate a wife with learning?” Cyrion asked with subtle mischief.

“Bah! A woman should read well enough to read her prayer book, and know enough of numbers to balance the household accounts. Beyond that, learning gives a woman ideas above her station. I doubt that Herriot Pontchardon or his father understood clearly what they would be getting.”

“So, is it your view that Milisande was not kidnapped, but left of her own accord?”

Alard le Verrier stared hard at Cyrion before he answered. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what’s happened to her. But if she was taken against her will, why was there no disturbance? If she is kidnapped, why is there no demand for ransom? If felons are involved in her disappearance, why was nothing valuable taken from the house? She has plenty of costly jewellery – but it’s still in the chest by her bed. My father won’t believe that she’s anything but the compliant daughter, but this stinks of personal treachery. If the bitch has run away to avoid marriage, it won’t surprise me at all.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have helped her, if that’s what she has done?”

“Another lover, do you mean?” Alard sneered. “My sister thought herself above men. She wouldn’t be conducting a hidden love affair.” He pointed at Cyrion, his finger stabbing the air. “You are the one they whisper stories about in taverns. You work it out. But mark my words: this is to do with her wanting her own way. Again.”

 

* * *

 

Careful inquiries guided Cyrion across town to the docks at the Port of Andriok, where he expected to find Herriot Pontchardon. Herriot’s father, Fulk Pontchardon, held the Governor’s Charter as the chief excise officer at the port, and Herriot worked alongside him, his trusted deputy. 

When Cyrion arrived at the dockside offices, Herriot was dealing with a merchant and his paperwork. 

Pontchardon was thorough. He took his time in reading over the merchant’s bill of lading, and examined the sample merchandise he was shown with the greatest care. Cyrion waited patiently as the documents were signed and marked, and payment changed hands. The merchant left, looking satisfied. Herriot Pontchardon now turned the whole of his attention to Cyrion.

“Master Pontchardon, my name is Cyrion. I have come here this morning on behalf of Baldwyn le Verrier.”

At the mention of his prospective father-in-law’s name, Herriot blanched. “Is there news of Milisande?”

“I regret that there is not. I have come to speak with you, hoping to learn something that may help to uncover what has befallen her.”

“Has Baldwyn le Verrier engaged you to discover her kidnappers? My father urged him to go to the Governor. Are you one of the Governor’s men?”

“No – but Master le Verrier has entrusted me to make enquiries. And, naturally, it’s fitting that I should speak to the man who is to be betrothed to Milisande.”

Herriot he sat down heavily. Cyrion took the seat opposite, fluid and elegant in contrast to Herriot’s nervy slump.

“I appreciate that you are troubled by Mistress Milisande’s disappearance,” he said, “but I hope you can help me to understand what may have happened to her.”

“Baldwyn le Verrier is convinced she was kidnapped. Do you think that’s true?” Herriot’s voice tremored with anxiety. “She’s a gentle woman. I would not want to see her harmed.”

“It’s not known yet exactly what’s become of her. Do you know of anyone who might have kidnapped her?”

There was a tense silence, during which worry and uncertainty chased each other across Herriot’s features. At last his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I suppose someone may want to extort money from her father – which is what he seemed to think when he came to our house last night. I can’t think that anyone would want to do her violence on her own account.”

Cyrion said, “No demand for ransom has been made as yet.” He paused. “Would it be possible that she has been taken by people who have a dispute with _you?_ ”

Herriot recoiled as if he’d been hit. “Me? God’s wounds, no! I have no enemies. I am fair in all that I do. I can’t think that this is aimed at me – or my family!”

“So you have not received any threats or demands?”

“No!”

“Nor any contact from Milisande herself?”

Herriot stared. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps Milisande has not been kidnapped. Perhaps has gone away of her own volition.”

“Why would she do that?” Herriot looked confused. “We were to be betrothed. She would not break her word. She is a woman of good family; she would not act with such discourtesy.”

He stopped. Cyrion waited. The confusion on Herriot’s face deepened, and became coloured by something that looked like shame.

“I don’t believe she has gone away on her own account,” Herriot said at last. “Like her father, I can only think that she has been taken against her will. But—” His gaze clouded. “You are a man of the world, Master Cyrion. You know what happens in these cases. If she has been taken by felons, she will not be treated with respect. She will most likely have been violated.” He swallowed. “If she is returned to her family, I will not be able to proceed with the betrothal. I cannot marry a woman who is dishonoured.” Herriot’s voice faded into a mumble, followed by silence.

Into this silence, Cyrion spoke softly. “Even if her dishonor was no fault of her own?”

“Even then.” Herriot Pontchardon’s knuckles whitened, his jaw tensed. “My family has won its honour hard. My grandfather fought in the Holy Wars. My father served the King with his sword and won a good name for his valour; then he earned a reputation for honest dealing serving the King here at the port of Andriok. Our family stands on the reputation we have created for ourselves. No dishonor must touch that. None at all.”

 

* * *

 

When Cyrion returned to the house of Baldwyn le Verrier, he did not enter by the front door but let himself in through a side gate that led to the kitchens and laundries, the parts of the house occupied by the servants.

Here, in a small paved yard, he found Gaatha washing clothing in a tub of soapy water that smelled strongly of lavender. With a reassuring smile, Cyrion sat down on a wooden bench beside the washing-tub. Gaatha wiped her hands on her apron, uncertainty creasing her brow.

“Gaatha, if I may trouble you for a few minutes more, I would like you to speak freely with me.”

“Sir?”

“Would you say Mistress Milisande was happy?”

“Sir, I am a servant; it’s not my place—”

“Gaatha, a woman will sometimes speak frankly to her maid and tell things she would not say to another. Or, being with her every day, a maid may observe things unspoken that might not be seen by anyone else.”

Carefully, Gaatha sat down on an upturned tub opposite Cyrion. She watched his face warily, as if judging whether it might be safe to speak as he asked.

“Your mistress may be in danger, as her father fears; or she may be in trouble of another kind. I want to understand better whether something may have been worrying her.”

Gaatha’s dark eyes held Cyrion’s mild gaze for a long, wary moment.

“My mistress never spoke of being troubled,” she said at last.

“A person can be troubled without speaking of it.” Cyrion spoke gently. “I am told by everyone I speak to that Milisande had a good life – a life of privilege. Do you think she was content, as people say she was?”

Gaatha sighed. “Sir, Mistress Milisande was a good woman. I would not want to say anything that would bring harm to her. She always treated me well, and she was kind to my child.”

“You have a child?”

“A girl. Esma. She is seven years old. Mistress Milisande was teaching her how to read and to reckon numbers.”

“Was she?” Cyrion looked thoughtful. “Does Esma enjoy learning?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Gaatha’s eyes brightened. “She’s quick to learn, and she loves her lessons. And I am most grateful to Mistress Milisande for teaching her. My daughter will be a servant, as I am. If she can read and reckon, she may be given better work to do.” She lowered her gaze. “She may not have to endure being used as some pretty girls are. As I was.”

Cyrion frowned. Such practice was not uncommon. 

“Not in this house!” Gaatha added. “The house where I served before I came here. I was young. I was often asked to – to entertain the master’s friends.” Her eyes lowered again. “I was put out of the house when I became pregnant. The master would not feed a child who could not work yet.”

“And Master le Verrier took you in?”

“He gave me work, and he allowed me to keep my child here after she was born. Master le Verrier is a kind man.”

“And did he ask Milisande to teach your child?”

“No. Mistress Milisande chose to do that herself. She values learning above all else. She said a woman with learning is a woman who can make choices.” Gaatha smiled. “It was kind of her, and I hope she is right.”

Cyrion stood up, his grey eyes warm. “Thank you, Gaatha. I won’t keep you from your work any longer. You have helped me very much.”

Going into the house by the courtyard door, Cyrion sought out Baldwyn le Verrier, who was once again sitting in the shadowy salon at the front of his house.

“Ah! Master Cyrion.” Le Verrier stirred. “Please – sit. Have you discovered anything?”

“As yet, no conclusion – but perhaps a way to discover one. I must ask for your indulgence – there are further inquiries yet to make.” Cyrion paused. “It is puzzling,” he said, watching le Verrier’s drawn face, “that there seems no sign of any disturbance in the house. And no indication that anything has been taken.”

“Ah.” Baldwyn le Verrier paused, as if considering whether to bring Cyrion further into his confidence.

“Ah? Is there something I should know?”

His voice charged with worry, le Verrier said, “There _is_ something missing. A jewel – an emerald set in gold that belonged to my wife. Milisande’s mother. I had recently given it to Milisande for her dowry. It was kept in a locked cupboard in one of my private rooms. I looked for it just now, and it was gone. Those who took Milisande must have known about it. God help me, they must have forced her to get the key and open the cupboard, and then lock the cupboard and return the key afterward to hide their crime.” The man was close to tears; he covered his face with shaking hands. “My poor daughter. My poor, poor girl.”

Cyrion regarded Baldwyn le Verrier gravely. “If I may be so bold,” he said, “get your housekeeper to call a physician; ask for a sleeping draught. You need to retain your strength, for your daughter’s sake.”

Baldwyn le Verrier, hunched on the edge of his seat, did not reply. Cyrion slipped quietly from the room and went out into the street.

 

* * *

 

Cyrion walked the streets of Andriok, asking the question he believed would lead him to the answers he needed: “Where would a woman of learning find welcome in this city?” At first, the answers were vague, but gradually they began to point in a single direction. 

As the sun was lowering in the western sky, he presented himself at the gates of the Convent of Martha and Mary, on the low olive-clad hills a mile outside the city walls of Andriok.

Mother Edburga was unwilling at first to let a stranger enter, but Cyrion – all suavity and impeccable manners – persuaded her that it was safe to do so. Safe, and necessary. 

Now, he sat on a plain wooden bench beneath the deep fragrant shade of a cedar tree in the corner of the convent garden, waiting for Milisande. 

Across the expanse of herb beds and lemon trees, he saw Mother Edburga come out through an archway, followed by a young woman. They paused. Mother Edburga was speaking; the young woman listened intently to what she was saying, glancing across the garden; then the Reverend Mother sat down on a bench by the archway and took up her rosary beads.

Plainly dressed, her hair covered by a soft white veil, Milisande approached along the flagstone path. Her step was firm, her back straight – but her eyes betrayed uncertainty.

Cyrion stood, and bowed courteously. “Milisande le Verrier, I presume?”

Milisande raised her chin defiantly. “Has my father sent you to bring me home?”

“No. He doesn’t know you’re here – unless someone else has worked it out, and told him.” Cyrion indicated the bench with a graceful hand. “Please – may I sit with you a moment?”

Milisande hesitated, then sat, keeping a wide distance from this handsome stranger whose motives were still unknown to her.

“Your father,” Cyrion began, “is distraught. He doesn’t know where you are, and he’s telling people that you’ve been kidnapped. He can’t imagine that you would have chosen to leave home yourself, particularly without his knowledge – and so he concludes that you were taken by force.” 

Pain and sorrow battled with the defiance in Milisande’s eyes. Defiance won. “I won’t go back.”

Cyrion smiled gently. “It’s for you to decide what you will do, Milisande. I won’t try to persuade you one way or another.” His grave grey eyes searched her face. “But I do think it would be a kindness if you would let your father know where you’ve gone, and why.”

Milisande frowned. “Should I trust you? I don’t know you.”

“My name is Cyrion. I am a friend of Guerrand de Clair, whom you do know. Master de Clair asked me to help your father, because he fears for your father’s wellbeing. And for yours, too.”

“As you can see, Master Cyrion, I am well and safe. I am at one with God, and with myself.” Her voice grew quieter, and she looked down at her hands. “Perhaps for the first time.”

Cyrion waited.

Milisande stared at her hands, clenching and unclenching in her lap. 

“I am sorry that I’ve caused my father grief. He’s a good man. He means well. He’s always been good to me.” Her eyes brightened with a hint of tears. “He wanted me to have everything I could possibly desire. He gave me clothes, jewels… but best of all, he allowed me to go on with my lessons, long after his friends’ daughters had stopped theirs. He let me have a tutor. I was able to learn mathematics and geometry.” She turned to Cyrion, her face alight now with fervor. “Since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to live the life of a scholar. I’ve wanted to understand science, to know how the world works. My father thought, perhaps, that he was just indulging his daughter’s harmless whims – but for me, it was more. Learning nourished me. I needed it, as people need air and food.

“When I was fifteen, my father began talking about betrothal and marriage. I realized that when I married, everything would change. Very likely, my husband would not approve of my study, and my learning would come to an end. The thought made me sad. Then, somehow, I heard of the Convent – that the nuns here divide their time between religious devotions and secular learning. I felt no calling to the religious life, but I was willing to do my best if it meant I could continue to study. Of course, I knew my father wouldn’t hear of my taking the veil. And I couldn’t just run away to join the Sisters: I was too young, and I had no money. You have to pay an endowment, you know, when you enter the Convent. 

“This year, my father and Fulk Pontchardon began negotiations, and it was decided that I would be betrothed to Herriot.” She sighed – a sigh of resignation. “I could see no way I could escape betrothal and marriage, and I thought if I had to be married to someone, I could bear to be married to Herriot. He’s a reasonable man; he doesn’t boast and swagger, as some do. I thought, better to be promised to Herriot than some others. And I nursed the hope that in time, perhaps after we had children, I might be able to return to learning in a small way. I thought he might not object, if everything else was as he wanted it. So, I agreed to the match.” 

“What changed your mind?”

“When I agreed, my father gave me one of my mother’s jewels – a large emerald set in gold. Very valuable. It had been part of her dowry, and he’d promised her before she died that he would give it to me to be part of my dowry, too.” Milisande smiled. “So you see, at last I was old enough and I had wealth of my own. I didn’t have my father’s permission, but I thought I could make a persuasive argument. And so, here I am.”

Milisande paused, then said, “Have you seen Herriot?”

“I have,” Cyrion replied. “He’s concerned for your welfare. However, I don’t believe he will exert pressure on you to return. I think he will step away willingly from your agreement.”

There was nothing to be gained, Cyrion thought, by telling her the full unpleasant truth: that Herriot Pontchardon’s greatest fear seemed to be the prospect of being saddled with a wife whose pre-marital purity might be suspect, even through no fault of her own.

“Oh, good.” Milisande sounded relieved. “I wish Herriot no ill. He should not suffer any hurt in this business. He’s a good, gentle man. He lives too much in the shadow of his father, but he is kind.” She rolled her eyes. “My brother may be less pleased. He was very keen for me to marry Herriot. Have you spoken to my brother?”

“Yes,” Cyrion said, his voice treading with care; “I have.”

Milisande snorted scornfully. “You need not protect him. My brother believes women should be denied education, and should keep to minding the house and looking after children. When _he_ marries, his wife will have a miserable time of it. So, Master Cyrion: do you plan to go back now and tell my father that his disobedient daughter has run away to join a Convent?”

“I must tell your father that I’ve found you. He needs to know that you’re safe and well, and that you’ve come here of your own free will. It would help him, though, if he could also hear the story from your own lips.”

The girl sighed. “I know. If he comes here to the Convent, I will try to explain; I hope he can understand why I’ve done this. I hope he won’t be too angry with me. I wouldn’t have been suited to the constraints of marriage; I hope he’ll be able to see that.”

“There are constraints in monastic life, too,” Cyrion commented, gazing across the garden at Mother Edburga, sitting in the shadows with her lips moving in prayer, her fingers counting her beads.

“Constraints, of course; but the monastic life will buy me a way to dedicate myself to learning.”

Cyrion stood up, and smiled down at Baldwyn le Verrier’s daughter. “Then I wish you contentment, Milisande.”

 

* * *

 

The stars blazed in the sky above Andriok as Cyrion entered the house of Baldwyn le Verrier for the third time that day. He found le Verrier sitting with Guerrand de Clair, drinking wine by the light of a dozen glass-shuttered lamps.

Cyrion delivered his message in plain language, using Milisande’s own words and making no judgement about her actions. He assured le Verrier that his daughter would willingly speak with him to make him understand her reasons – but reiterated that he believed her decision would remain firm: her dedication to learning was more dear to her than family, marriage or devotion to God.

Le Verrier received the news of his daughter’s whereabouts, and the choice she had made, with mixed emotions. Naturally, he was relieved that Milisande was safe, but he was hurt that she would take so momentous a step without confiding in him. Puzzled, too, that she would repudiate marriage and the comfort and social status that went with it, for the self-denial of convent life.

“Baldwyn, old friend,” Guerrand said quietly, “you have much to think about. Take the sleeping draught your physician brought for you, and rest. For now, Cyrion and I will bid you good night.”

 

* * *

 

“I am relieved that the girl has come to no harm,” Guerrand de Clair said, pouring wine for them both in the salon of his own house. “I feel for Baldwyn le Verrier – he doted on his daughter, and he relished the prospect of uniting his family with the house of Pontchardon.”

Cyrion sipped his wine, and set the cup on the table beside the weighty purse of coins le Verrier had placed in his hands as he’d left.

“Baldwyn has accepted the facts, I think,” Guerrand continued, “although he will take some time to come to terms with it emotionally. Still, he has faced worse things. The girl is safe, and professes to be happy. The Pontchardons will acquiesce – and they can put about the news that Milisande found a call to the religious life, which should remove any shadow that might linger over her choice not to proceed with the betrothal. Life goes on.”

“Life, and the social gloss that colours it,” Cyrion remarked wryly. 

Guerrand’s brow creased. “Baldwyn did tell me, as we were leaving, that he feels he must put Gaatha out of his house. He says her presence will remind him of Milisande’s absence.” He paused, gazing into his wine cup. “It occurs to me that my own house would benefit from having another servant. I think I can offer her a place here.” 

“And the child?”

“Oh, the child will be no burden. I’ll go to Baldwyn’s house tomorrow and offer Gaatha work in my household. And a roof over both their heads.”

“Then,” said Cyrion, “perhaps you could grant me a request. Will you see that the child continues her lessons?” He picked up le Verrier’s gold-heavy purse and slid it across the tabletop. “This may help to defray the costs.”

Guerrand nodded. “Very well. Perhaps if the child shows aptitude, I can find a place for her when she is older. As a clerk or scribe. And you, Cyrion my friend? Your time here has been taken up with Baldwyn le Verrier’s business. We’ve not been out with the falcons. Can you stay longer?”

Cyrion shook his head. “No, old friend, I am sorry. I must take the road tomorrow morning. There are matters I have to attend to in Daskiriom. I can stay no longer.” He drained his wine and placed the cup on the table. “Don’t look for me in the morning. I will be gone before sunrise.”

 

* * *


End file.
